


Turn to Silk

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, SanSan Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17105093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: For Sansan Secret Santa 2018Four scenes of Winterfell in spring: The Starks have reclaimed their ancestral home, but there's someone missing.





	Turn to Silk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salsita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salsita/gifts).



> Prompt: Book-canon future Winterfell setting

 

 

_One: The Widows of the Vale_

 

She comes with spring, finally.

Winterfell stands tall and almost strong again after a long winter of slow rebuilding, an oasis of life in the vast, snow-covered landscape. Within the walls, though, the changing of the season is apparent. The hot springs under the ancient castle warm the ground, and frail blue spring flowers have appeared in the Godswood and around the glass gardens. Or so Lord Rickon tells him. Sandor hasn’t gone to see for himself. A false spring two years ago brought every soul from within the castle and from Winter town to the Great Hall for a great feast that lasted a week before new snow covered Winterfell once more, and Sandor is not prepared to feel that disappointment again.

_Not that it matters, much,_ he tells himself. Yes, with spring the roads will open up and new trade will begin to blossom, bringing sweet fruit and fine silk from the South. But Sandor has no need for fruit and silk. He’s not sure _what_ he needs.

Years ago, he traveled North on a false promise, abandoning what relative safety and peace he had found on the Quiet Isle, only to be stuck up here during the long, dark winter. _The Starks have the North again. The lost little lords and Lady Stark have returned,_ it had been whispered. And foolishly, in some desperate quest for redemption he had shed his robes, sharpened his sword, and gone North.

The first thing that happened upon his arrival was that he was almost killed. It was his own fault, of course. Never once during his journey did it cross his mind that the younger sister would ever be referred to as a Lady. And so he had found himself kneeling in the slush and mud of Winterfell’s courtyard, surrounded by guards, staring down the tip of the she-wolf’s blade, and the enormous teeth of her snarling direwolf. She had just ordered his hanging _(’No blade for this worthless dog’)_ when her crippled brother had interfered, insisting he would be of use to them.

And perhaps he is. As captain of the Guard he is certainly kept busy, at least. There is rarely any need for him at the battlements anymore, but he trains his men diligently, and Winterfell is better protected than it was without him. Even with his bad leg he is still good for killing. The she-wolf doesn’t like him, still, but even she can’t deny his usefulness. Lord Bran rarely pays him any heed, keeping to the Godswood and his solar for the most part, but Lord Rickon seems to actually enjoy his company. Sandor can’t recall anyone who’s ever done that before. Joffrey liked having him around because he scared people, and before that, the Queen had seen the usefulness in his strong build and his skill with the sword, allowing him to blend into the background of her everyday life. Now, in Winterfell, Lord Rickon requests his presence at the high table for the morning meals. Sandor always obliges, because an order is an order, no matter how much the she-wolf glares at him.

He can hardly fault her for it. Convention prevents her smith from joining her at the high table, order or no, but she must suffer Sandor’s company. He remembers, with painful clarity, every single thing he said in his desperation for mercy, and he knows she does, too. He is, in a way, grateful for that. With the constant reminder of his past wrongdoings, he can almost pretend that he’s happy that he’ll never see the little bird again. For how could he ever earn her forgiveness? If she’d been here, as he thought she would be when he’d thoughtlessly set out from the Quiet Isle, why would she have reacted any differently than her sister? The long winter has almost completely replaced Sandor’s hope for forgiveness with an old bitterness. 

”She’s here,” Lord Bran says suddenly, quieting the low conversation at the high table. ”We should all head to the bailey.”

Lord Rickon furrows his brow. ”Who’s here?”

”Spring.” He smiles, and it’s so unusual that it’s oddly unsettling to Sandor. It’s not Sandor’s place to ask questions, though, and so he follows quietly when the wildling woman pushes Lord Bran’s rolling chair out of the great hall along with his siblings. Their three wolves have gotten up from the floor to follow them outside.

Guardsman Gwyn comes running through the corridor towards them. ”My lords, my lady, there’s—”

”Let them in,” says Lord Bran before he can finish. Gwyn looks to Sandor for half a second before he nods, and sets off running back outside.

It’s not yet midday, but the sun shines blindingly down on the bailey. Maester Ellas is striding across the open courtyard from the rookery, holding a raven scroll in his hands like it’s a frail and precious thing. Sandor just begins to wonder why when the bells begin to toll for spring. _The white raven_. _It’s here_. A cheer rises in the bailey, and amidst all the confusion he almost doesn’t even notice that the South Gate is opening.

He follows the Starks to greet the arriving party. It’s been long since they’ve had visitors deemed worthy of a proper greeting by the Lords and Lady of the keep. The castle’s steward Larence Snow also stands awaiting the new arrivals, nodding to the Starks as they reach him.

Guards carrying banners enter first. Manderly, Stark, and a strange, bronze-colored banner that Sandor doesn’t recognize. Three women in high sidesaddles follow. The first wears a dark blue cloak, with a long braid dyed green falling down her shoulder. The second woman is shorter, rounder, dressed in heavy velvets, her thick chestnut curls bouncing with her horse’s steps. And the third… Had it not been for the thunder in his chest, Sandor would have heard the she-wolf’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

She is dressed from head to toe in mourning white. A heavy white cloak from under which white, silver-embroidered skirts peek out, white gloves, even her fur-trimmed riding boots are white. A circlet of silver is wreathed around her dark red hair.

”She looks like Mother,” he can hear Lord Rickon whisper by his side. ”Is that Sansa?”

_Foolish boy,_ Sandor thinks. She looks like a statue of the Maiden sprung to life. ”Aye,” he hears himself answer, though the question was surely not directed at him. ”That’s her.”

Sansa Stark’s arrival at Winterfell, near ten years after her departure, causes such a stir that no-one notices how the captain of the guard stares, helplessly, as she dismounts and is immediately swallowed in an embrace by her sister. He watches the tears spill from her eyes as she kisses her brothers’ cheeks, imprints into his mind the blue of her eyes, the line of her jaw, her high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips. He watches how her hair falls in cascades down her shoulders, how her cheeks dimple as she introduces her companions to her siblings.

”You are too kind to welcome a pair of old widows of the Vale,” he hears the shorter woman jape. _Widows?_ _But the Imp is in King’s Landing_ , he thinks, in his dazed state. He hears her laughter, deeper than he remembers, but then, he’s not certain that he ever heard her laugh in King’s Landing.

”Lady Wylla was ever so kind as to accompany us on our journey after her father’s wonderful hospitality in White Harbor,” Sansa Stark smiles. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are pink from the cold.

At least a dozen servants with pack horses have entered the courtyard behind them, and even more guards.

”White Harbor?” says the she-wolf. ”And yet, you couldn’t send a raven to tell that you were coming? We thought you were _dead_.”

”It’s a dangerous road,” says Lord Bran. ”She didn’t want us to wait for her in case she didn’t make it.”

”I— Yes, Bran, how did you—”

But she is interrupted by the fool boy Larence, who has eagerly placed himself beside Lord Rickon to greet her. Rickon, who, while grinning broadly, seems to be the least affected by his sister’s return, introduces him.

”This is Larence Snow, our new steward. You should meet our captain of the guard, as well. Clegane!”

With that, everything goes very quiet for Sandor. As if in a dream, he sees Sansa Stark’s eyes widen slightly, sees her lift her gaze and almost immediately find him among the many people who have now appeared in the courtyard. Sandor dares not move. If she was rosy-cheeked before, now all blood drains from her face and she opens her mouth as if to say something, but no words come.

_Little bird_. Her cheeks are already streaked with tears, and for that he is grateful: the one tear meandering down her cheekbone now is hardly noticeable. He wonders if it’s for him, but quickly dismisses the thought. _It’s for spring, and for her family. No tears for an old dog._

_”Clegane!”_

It’s the she-wolf, of course, whose patience is lost. Her voice cuts through the air and brusquely pulls him from his soundless, still world. Her brothers are both staring at him; no-one has noticed how pale Sansa Stark became at the sight of Sandor Clegane. With the sound, so returns everything else: the courtyard now bustling with servants and stable boys, the chill biting at his fingertips, something cold on his cheek. _Snowflake,_ he thinks, but the sky is clear. Servants from the arriving retinue stare openly at his ruin of a face, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Larence, too, has lost his patience: with a flourish, he gestures for the ladies to follow him inside. With the short woman on one side and her sister at the other, Sansa Stark is led into the keep, and Sandor does the only thing he can; he follows.

 

 

_Two: The Long Welcome_

 

”We’ve brought grain, of course; a gift from the Vale. Ships from Essos arrive in Gulltown almost every month, now.” Lady Myranda takes a delicate sip of her amber wine. Another gift from the Vale.

”Not so much here, yet,” says Lady Wylla. ”The Harbor was still frozen up until three months ago.”

”How lucky that we did not travel sooner, then,” Lady Sansa smiles. She sits slightly leaned forward, reaching down with one hand to stroke the fur of Nymeria, who lies contentedly on the floor between hers and her little sister’s chairs.

”Why _didn’t_ you?”

Silence follows Lord Rickon’s question. From where he sits (too far down the table for his liking) Sandor sees Sansa Stark exchange a look with Lady Myranda.

”There was…” Lady Sansa trails off. ”There was a fever, in the Vale. It took many people. It took my husband. Before that, it— I was not able to leave.”

”Good riddance, then,” says the she-wolf, voicing what Sandor is thinking.

Lady Sansa does not appear shocked at her sister’s words. _No false pretenses of love, either,_ he thinks, remembering her bad lies at court in King’s Landing.

”A shame about Lord Baelish, though,” says Lady Myranda with an ill-feigned nonchalance.

”Littlefinger’s dead?” The words are out of Sandor’s mouth before he can stop them.

”Petyr was very ill when we left,” says Lady Sansa, addressing Sandor directly for the first time in ten years, and his heart damn near stops. ”It was very unfortunate that we couldn’t even bid him farewell.”

He doesn’t like how she uses his first name. But then he sees the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of the little bird’s lips, and the true meaning of her words dawn on him. _Flew away, did you, little bird?_ Years among silent brothers and Northmen have made him dull to hidden meanings, it seems. Yet _she_ seems shrewd and honest all at once, putting up a façade of mourning white, but doesn’t deny that her husband was but yet another cage to her. _Who was he?_ Sandor can’t help but wonder. No high lord, or she would not have been able to flee even after his death. She speaks as though they were married all through the winter, and yet she has brought no children with her.

Her eyes are still on him when Snow reenters the hall, and announces that chambers have been prepared for the ladies. Suddenly, she is gone, and servants all but flood the hall, preparing for a feast of Spring and the return of the lost Stark. 

He has a bath brought to his chambers. One good thing, at least, that life in the North has brought him; on the Quiet Isle, he’d have to go down to the common baths and heat the water himself. Sandor tries to tell himself it will be meaningful, to clean himself for the arrival of Spring, but mostly, he just wants something to do. It’s hours yet before the feast. There haven’t been sweetly scented soaps and oils in Winterfell for a long time, but Sandor never cared much for that anyway. A bath is a simple thing, and it’s the simplicity that makes it good.

The hot water embraces his body like a sigh, and even his bad leg seems to relax somewhat. Alone in the bath, with the dulled sounds of preparation reaching him from the Great Hall, he realized that it might have been a mistake to be alone with his thoughts after the morning’s events. He wonders if it matters to her that he is here. He wonders how he looked to her, out in the yard. Old, most likely. Damaged. An unpleasant memory. He casts an eye over at his grey guards tunic, and notices mud splatter on the hem. _Was it strange to her, seeing the old Lannister Hound in Stark livery?_ Perhaps it doesn’t matter to her. She is a woman grown now, twice wed and once widowed. What does she care for an old dog? Once more, he wonders about her husband.

He is only half-dressed when his door bursts open, and Arya Stark storms in.

”Clegane!” she shouts in an almost accusing manner, as though she isn’t the one who just stormed into his chamber while he’s getting dressed.

”Yes?” he says conversationally, pulling a tunic over his head. This is not the first time he has drawn the she-wolf’s ire, nor is it the first time she has entered his chambers in such a manner.

”Don’t believe for a _second_ that I’ve forgotten the things you said about my sister at the Trident.” She immediately begins pacing the length of his chambers.

”I don’t,” Sandor replies warily.

”And _don’t_ think I’ve forgiven you.”

”I don’t,” he repeats. ”Why are you here?”

She stops, and eyes him intently. _She’s been crying,_ he realizes. He knows that look by now, knows the red in her eyes and the anger she conjures to hide it.

”Do you think I’m stupid?” she says, voice sharp as the crack of a whip.

Sandor ties his belt on and leans back against the wall, arms crossed. ”No.” It’s the truth, whether he likes it or not.

”I know why you came here, years ago. Don’t think I ever bought that horseshit about fleeing the law.”

Sandor says nothing. Dread courses through his body, pools in his stomach and vibrates in his fingertips.

”You came for her.”

He wants to deny it, but no words will come. She continues:

”You came for her, and when she wasn’t here, when we thought she was d— gone, you stayed anyway.”

”Hard to travel in winter,” he manages.

”Not impossible,” she says. ”I’ve seen you in the godswood. You’re no pious man. You stayed for the same reason we set up her chambers again, but never let them be occupied. You could have gone to fight the war to the North. Or the one in the South. But you didn’t.”

”I’ve kept your honor guard trained. I’ve patrolled your battlements through the long dark. What does it matter to you why?”

”Because she’s _my sister,”_ the she-wolf hisses, closing in on him. ”And if you _hurt_ her, after I’ve just gotten her back… Before I’ve even gotten to _know_ her again, before I’ve had the chance to _apologize—”_ She breaks off, seems to catch herself.

Sandor bursts out a laugh; sharp and bitter. She stares at him.

”Is that what you think of me?” He hates how hollow his voice comes. ”You think I came all the way up here to see her hurt? You think I wanted—”

”I don’t think you know what you want.” She takes her hand off of the hilt of her sword. He never saw her put it there.

”I does not matter what I want,” he says, and wills the bitterness out of his voice. ”I’ve served your House for years, and I’ll keep doing so for as long as you’ll have me.”

She backs away from him, takes deep breaths. And Sandor knows those breaths, has practiced them for years now, to keep the grief and anger at bay. Her eyes dart to his window, from where the smithy can be seen. He knows precisely whom she thinks of. But she is intruding, and she is reminding him of what he cannot have, and so he offers no sympathy:

”Now get out of my chambers,” he says. _”My lady.”_

She gives him one last glare before exiting his chambers. She does not close the door behind her. It is a petty punishment for his insolence, where other masters would have had him flogged.

He knows the importance of the evening’s feast, and wears his ceremonial livery. It’s a far cry from the ostentatiously gaudy uniforms of the Red Keep guards, for which he is grateful; a grey velvet doublet fitted over his silver mail, and it only has a couple small stains on it. A silver direwolf is embroidered on the front. Sandor even shaves for the occasion, and wears his good boots.

Much of what is served at the feast comes from the Vale, he notes, sitting in the Great Hall later in the evening. There was no request for him at the high table tonight, but he is seated above the salt, at least. Fine Arbor wine is placed in front of him, but he barely takes a sip. Elder Brother got him out of the habit of drinking years ago, and once the shaking stopped, he knew he was through with it. The stupor that once served as his respite from the world now almost frightens him. _It’s the loss of control,_ he decides. He does not know if one drunken night is enough to undo years of learning to control and temper himself, but he is not willing to try and see.

The great hall is filled to the brim with people. Some have even come from Winter Town, and word has reached the keep that retinues from the Last Hearth and Hornwood are on their way for the continued celebrations in the weeks to come. Some houses already have representatives at Winterfell, heirs sent during the winter to await spring within the safety of the ancient castle, ensuring the survival of their Houses.

Unthinking, his eyes go to the high table, not for the first time this evening.

She isn’t seated at the high seat, but she might as well have been for how she draws his eye. Sandor never considers beauty much, any more than his ruined visage has forced him to be keenly aware of his lack of it, but seeing her again has made him more keenly aware of it than ever. Certainly, he has dreamt of her, has waxed poetic like a green boy in the privacy of his thoughts about her; her red hair, her skin so pale that faint blue veins could be seen beneath in the right light. But _this_. To have her present and so near, familiar and still not… She seems larger than life to him, taking up an unreasonable amount of space among others who pale at either side of her. No longer in bright white, her heavy gown is the color of cream, lined with white fur. Her dark red hair is still wreathed in silver, and even from where he sits, he can hear her clear voice as she makes conversation with her table companions. The Umber and Glover lordlings have flocked to her side, naturally, like dull moths to a bright-burning flame. A prickling at the back of his neck brings Sandor to scan the rest of the table, and his eyes fall on the Lady Myranda. She is observing him attentively, and, catching his eye, she offers a small shrewd smile before she turns her attention back to Lady Wylla beside her. Ashamed at being caught staring, he resumes his meal.

After the feast comes the dancing. Tables are moved aside to make room in the crowded hall. Musicians begin playing, and lords and ladies twirl alongside the wealthy smallfolk at the feast. Sandor keeps to the corner of the hall, watching the dance.

Sansa Stark dances with every young nobleman in the hall, save for her crippled brother. Her travel companions dance as well, merrily twirling along on light feet. He even sees the little bird coax her sister into joining them for one dance. The she-wolf is wearing a gown, for once, a dark blue thing that pales in comparison to her sister’s incandescence. _Not all seem to think so, though,_ Sandor realizes as he sees the castle’s smith, Gendry, stare after the girl like a fool as she uncertainly follows her sister’s graceful movements.

Sandor lets his gaze wander the hall. There’s a gaggle of local merchants deep in conversation at a table by the opposite wall. Lord Bran is still at the high table, speaking with Larence, their heads close together. The Reed lordling is with them, as well. Lady Wylla has ended up at a lively table playing cards with Beth Cassel. Another sweep over the hall to make sure his guards are all in their proper positions, and Sandor realizes the dancing has ended. The musicians still play, but in a less co-ordinated manner, sneaking in swigs of ale that disrupt the harmony. No-one seems to mind. 

He spots the Lady Myranda at a table surrounded by people, but not the little bird. He can’t seem to find her anywhere in the hall. _Perhaps she is just hidden in the crowd,_ he thinks, but given how impossible it was for him _not_ to see her before, it seems unlikely. With the excuse of heading to the high table and his liege lord, Sandor gets up, and walks past the table Lady Myranda is sitting by, trying to scan it as discreetly as possible.

”Clegane!”

_Not discreet enough, it would seem_.

”Clegane! That _is_ your name, is it not?” It’s Lady Myranda, rosy-cheeked from wine and dancing. She has turned around in her seat, beckoning to him.

Reluctantly, he obliges. ”My lady.”

”Seven, you are a large fellow, aren’t you?” The woman is eyeing him unabashedly, from his half-heartedly polished boots to his ruin of a face. ”She told me you were tall, but I’d have never imagined _this.”_

_She?_ Sandor looks at her, puzzled.

”You know Lady Sansa from King’s Landing, correct?”

Mutely, he nods. _She spoke of me?_

”Good, good.” Lady Myranda smiles and reaches over the lordling next to her, grabbing something white from the backrest of his chair. ”My dear Sansa went outside, but she forgot her shawl. Would you be so kind as to bring it to her? Northerner or not, I’m sure she’s cold.”

Sandor stares at the woman. ”Do you take me for a servant?”

She smiles sweetly. ”I take you for a man who wouldn’t let his liege lady freeze.”

Not even a glare from a face as grim as his discourages her. In the end, he snatches the shawl from her and stalks away.

He could just hand it to a servant and have them deliver the lady her shawl. He could just put it down on a bench and forget about it. It’s soft in his hands. He looks down on it: an intricate, lace-like pattern made from something that instantly warms his hands, yet it’s so fine that it feels nearly non-existent between his fingers.

The cold hits him like a wall as soon as he gets outside. It’s dark. Braziers form islands of light across the inner courtyard and along the castle’s walls. He can see a pair of servants carrying wine barrels across the courtyard, and stable boys gathered around a brazier, but not her. Movement in the corner of his eye draws his attention, and there she is: a pale figure in her cream-white gown, up on the battlements. Alone.

Sandor climbs the narrow steps, heart hammering in his chest. Reaching the top, he is met by guardsmen Harlon and Jorah, who look at him in surprise.

”Captain Clegane,” Harlon greets him. ”We thought you w—”

”Take the southern wall,” he barks. His men are used to his demeanor by now, and don’t flinch at his harshness. ”I’m taking this one for now.”

The guardsmen nod, and hurry away to the southern wall. Sandor turns, and slowly walks towards where she is standing. It’s not windy, for once, and in the quiet she must have heard his exchange with the guards. But she merely looks out across the landscape, her face cast in a warm glow from the brazier next to her. He is nearly by her side when she turns to face him.

”Sandor Clegane.” His name from her lips sounds like a blessing, even though he curses himself for thinking that. ”’Captain,’ is it now?” He cannot read her expression.

”I suppose. Most often it’s just ’Clegane,’ though.” He holds out her shawl. ”Lady Royce though you might need this.”

”Did she, now.” She looks down at the shawl and back up at Sandor, making no attempt to reach for it. The smallest of smiles plays over her features. ”No cloak for me this time?”

At first, he does not understand her meaning. It was not a cloak she’d left in the hall. And cloaking a lady is— _Another hall. Another life._ He’s shielded her with his cloak once, far too late. It had been a coward’s help, covering up the damage once it was already done. He can’t say why she would want to bring it up now. _So that you’ll remember that you’ll never earn her forgiveness,_ comes a cruel voice in his mind.

”Not my place to cloak the Lady Stark,” he says.

She tilts her head and regards him for a moment. ”No,” she agrees, and pathetically, his heart sinks. ”I suppose it isn’t.”

She takes the shawl from him delicately, never touching his skin. A small shake and it unfolds from her hands, reaching almost down to the ground as she sweeps it around herself.

”I’m glad you’re alive,” she says then, inexplicably.

There was a time when he would have scoffed at her, called her a liar. But she is no prisoner here, and she has no reason to lie. When he cannot think of a reply, she speaks again:

”Will you stay with me for a bit?”

”Aye,” he says, having had no thought to leave. ”My lady.”

She offers him a smile then, small but warm, and he just about loses himself before she turns back to gaze out into the dark. 

”Have you been here long?”

”Six years.”

”Do you intend to stay come summer?”

”I suppose I do. Comfort such as this is hard to come by these days.”

She merely offers a hum in reply.

”And you, Lady Sansa?” He is almost afraid to ask.

”I—” She falters. ”I would like to, if possible.” She sighs, and he can see that her shoulders are shivering.

”Shall I take you back inside?”

”No,” she says almost too quickly. ”I’d rather stay, if it please you.”

She shivers more violently now, and has closed her eyes tightly.

Sandor does not know what to do.

”You unwell, little bird?”

It slips out before he can stop it. _Little bird_. Not that she seems to notice. She flinches at his words, and turns back to him, a courtly smile firmly in place. ”I’m—” She pauses, takes a deep breath. The smile disappears. ”You hate liars. I remember. Are you certain you want the truth, then? It’s more for me than for you.”

”Aye,” he says, not sure to what.

”The truth is, I don’t know. It’s been a long day. I’ve met my siblings. They’re all grown now. I’m afraid they won’t forgive who I was, and I worry they won’t like who I’ve become. I’ve bathed in my old chambers. I’ve seen the grave of my childhood friend. I’ve prayed in the godswood, cried in the crypts. I put my ear to these walls and I hear the hot water rushing through them, as it’s done for thousands of years. It’s a constant hum in the back of your mind, always, have you noticed? I never realized how I’d missed it until I heard it again.”

She looks up at him, standing in dumbfounded silence. ”You’re different,” she says, brow furrowed. ”Please, forgive me. I’m sure you would rather return to the spring festivities. I won’t keep you any longer.”

_Keep me,_ he thinks. ”They’re celebrating your return, as well,” he says.

She seems to consider this for a moment. ”I suppose they are.” A sigh. ”Shall we go, then?”

He nods, and though he did not hold it out to her, she has snaked her hand into the crook of his arm. Looking down in surprise, she half-smiles up at him. Her pale, slender hand looks frail against his silver mail. Taking a deep breath, he leads her back towards the Great Hall.

 

 

_Three: The Lady of Winterfell_

 

Sansa wakes to a chamber already flooded in midday light. She groans inwardly, first at her sleeping away the day, and then at the pounding in her head. Slowly, she sits up in her bed. Even after a month of waking up in these chambers, there is a moment of adjustment every morning. Her bed is empty, for one. Even in sleep, Harry would always spread out, draping himself across her. It used to bother her, but now, she almost finds that she misses it.

Last night was the final night of celebration, with House Stark welcoming spring with as many of their sworn bannermen that could reach Winterfell within a month. Sansa spoke with them all, proud and grateful all at once to reside in her ancestral home once more. She wants to wander these halls for the rest of her life, wants to jape with her siblings, wants the kindness of spring to turn her hardened skin to soft silk.

”Oh! You’re awake, m’lady.” Sansa’s maid, Megga, has entered her chamber. It’s still odd, seeing members of her household from the Vale within the walls of her childhood home.

”Unfortunately,” she says, pressing at her temples.

”I brought you something for that,” says Megga, and hurries over with a cup of strong-smelling tea. ”Lord Umber wishes to meet with you before supper, m’lady.”

_Lord Umber wishes to wed me,_ Sansa thinks. ”Can he not wait another day?”

”It’s not my place to say, m’lady.”

”I’m going to take a walk.”

”The weather is lovely, m’lady. Shall I fetch Lady Myranda for you?”

”No, I’ll go alone today.”

”A guard, then?”

”No need, Megga.”

”As you say, m’lady.” She does not look convinced.

The tea does help a little. She silently reminds herself to pray for Maester Ellas when she heads to the godswood.

The weather _is_ lovely outside. Spring is a slow affair in the North, unfolding gently from beneath layers and layers of ice and snow. Today, the sky is clear, and new spring flowers have appeared in the courtyard, scattered like blue gemstones across the ground. The cold lingers in the air, but the sunlight warms her skin. Sansa considers heading to the godswood, but a large silhouette on top of the western wall changes her mind.

These narrow stairs are well familiar to her by now, and she skips the two cracked steps without even looking down. At the top, she finds him leaned against the balustrade.

”Clegane.”

He immediately stands straight. She smiles.

”Lady Sansa.”

”Are we so short on men that the captain of the guard needs patrol the battlements each day?” She asks, knowing the answer.

The burnt corner of his mouth twitches. ”Isn’t there a game of cyvasse you ought to be playing somewhere?”

She laughs. ”I’m sure there is, but I’d rather be here.”

He gives her a look that she has learned to take as a smile from him. He’s had his studded leather jerkin mended, at last, she notices. That loose seam in the side has bothered her terribly these past weeks, and she is pleased to see neat new stitches in its place. 

”I didn’t see you at the feast yesterday,” she says, putting a hand on the balustrade and looking out across the wind-swept landscape. His presence is a comfort beside her, and she wants more than anything to lean into his frame, breathe into the crook of his neck…

”I figured I wouldn’t be needed. The Hall was teeming with lords and ladies yesterday, I’m sure no-one minded not having to look at _this.”_ He gestures towards the burnt side of his face.

_I minded,_ she thinks. ”Don’t be so certain of that,” she says, and is horrified that her voice comes out a whisper. Quickly, she clears her throat. ”I would have welcomed your company over that of those ever-persisting heirs.”

He scoffs, refusing to believe her as always. ”Did my lady find the company of her bannermen lacking?”

_”They_ find _me_ lacking of a husband.” She sighs. ”Randa thinks I should hold a tourney and give the champion my hand in marriage. I do enjoy a good tourney.” In her mind, it’s all so simple. She has what she wants just nearly within reach, all she needs to do is find the right angle of attack.

”Is that what you wish?” He rasps, some harshness she recalls from King’s Landing back in his voice, mouth twitching. ”You’d wed any fool that wins your tourney? A pretty lordling?”

”I’ve seen you win a tourney,” she says, the words out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

”I’m no lord,” he says so quickly that it almost seems practiced.

”I’m sure something could be arranged,” she says, and smiles a crooked smile, to shield her want with playfulness out of habit.

She immediately regrets it.

A flash of something crosses his features, something so naked and vulnerable as to make her heart ache. Immediately, he has stowed it away, replaced it with anger and turns, suddenly, stalking down the battlements, away from her. _Foolish girl, foolish girl, foolish girl,_ she curses herself over and over again, realizing her misjudgment.

”Clegane!” She raises her voice after him, but he does not reply, nor does he turn around. ”Clegane,” she repeats, and begins hurrying after him. She catches up by an alcove in the nearest guard tower, and reaches to lay a hand on his shoulder. ”Sandor.” Her voice is pleading. He stops.

”I’m guarding your keep, _my lady,”_ he says, but does not turn around.

”Sandor, I meant it.” Still he does not turn. Slowly, she walks around his large frame to face him. ”I meant it.”

He stares down at her in disbelief. Very gently, she reaches up to cup his bad cheek, like she did so many years ago. They were both frightened then, too. 

”Would you ride in my tourney, Sandor Clegane?” It’s as close as she can bring herself to asking.

He seems to deflate then, the tense rage disappearing with a long exhale, leaving him looking perplexed.

”Little bird,” he rasps, and her heart soars at the reminder. ”I cannot ride down every lordling in the North.”

”Are you certain?” She can’t help but smile.

”Mayhaps seven years ago. Not anymore.”

”Then _ask_ me.” She lowers her hand to grasp his large, calloused hand in hers.

”I’m no lord.”

”I’ll _make_ you a lord.”

”You would have me? You would have _this?”_ He angles his bad side towards her. ”You don’t need me to tell you it looks monstrous.”

She tilts her head, letting her gaze caress every part of his scarred face. ”It looks painful,” she says, ”and I’m sorry for that.” A strangled sound escapes from somewhere deep in his throat. ”You’ve wanted this,” she says. ”Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

When he speaks again, his voice comes broken:

”I have. I want—” A large hand strokes her hair, another grabs her shoulder desperately. She takes a step back, pulling him along, and he follows her into the alcove behind her. ”I want you, little bird.”

”Good,” she says, pulling him down towards her. ”Good,” she smiles against his lips.

 

 

_Four: The Oldest Promise_

 

This is the room: Half-dark, morning light seeping in between the shutters, throwing long lines across the covers of the great canopy bed. A finely embroidered gown is slung across the back of a chair in a symbolic show of care for the garment. Below it, pieces of clothing are strewn haphazardly, forming a trail to the bed. On a side table are two green wineglasses. One is empty, the other has fallen over, its former content a dark stain on the bear pelt covering the floor.

There is movement in the bed.

A pale, slender arm dangles over the edge, sticking out from under thick, fur-lined covers. A soft groan, and an equally pale face peers out. Very slowly, Lady Sansa Stark lifts herself up on her elbow. Her hair is a great tangle of red, part of it still wrought up in ornate braids. The tangled bedsheets have left a criss-crossing pattern of pink on her upper arm, and she rubs it slowly as her eyes take in the chamber around her. There is a soft snoring coming from behind her, but something else has caught her attention:

There is birdsong.

She cannot say the last time she heard birds singing. Was it on the last autumn hawking trip, that fateful day when Ben Coldwater broke his back falling off his horse? Or was it on the morning of her wedding to Harold Hardyng, as she sat staring out her window for what seemed like hours while three maids worked on her hair? A lifetime ago, either way.

Lifting the covers off of herself, and smiling as she removes the heavy arm around her waist, she sits up, burrowing her toes into the bear pelt on the floor. Sansa shivers, completely bare, reaches to pick up a light green silk robe and pulls it on. It was made for a warmer climate, imported from Lys for her by Petyr, but it will have to do its best against the cold winds of the North. Carefully, she stands up on somewhat unsteady legs. There’s a bruise on her calf, but she cannot recall how it got there. She stretches, almost enjoying her well-earned soreness, and walks over to the window and opens the shutters.

Bright light floods the room, and she blinks, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust. From here, she can just see the vast landscape beyond Winterfell above the castle walls, but that is not what draws her attention.

There’s an old oak tree in the courtyard below her window, its naked branches stretching out and inwards all at once. From her window, she can see a group of small red birds sitting in the tree. Sansa is lost for a moment in the sight, and stands frozen by the window to listen to their singing. She barely notices how the cold prickles her skin.

She hears a rustling coming from the bed.

”Good morning, wife,” comes that familiar rasp of a voice.

Sansa lets out a breath, allows the word to wash over her: _wife_. This time around, it does not sound so frightening form a man’s lips. Casting one final glance at the birds, she slowly turns around.

”Husband,” she smiles. He’s half-sitting in the bed. Sansa lets her eyes sweep over his bare chest before settling on his face. His hair is tangled, too, and he looks tired in a way that is so unguarded that it catches her by surprise. _His_ eyes are sweeping over her, meanwhile; she realizes that her robe must turn nigh on invisible, lit by the window behind her. Recalling how undone he was the night before, praising and cursing her all at once, she doesn’t mind.

”There are songbirds,” she says. ”Can you hear?”

”Aye,” he rasps, ”and it’ll be the last thing I hear if you keep those shutters open to the cold.”

”Southerners,” she smiles, making no move to close the shutters. She turns back to look outside.

There was a surprising ease of sinking down into his arms last night, an unpracticed care with which they both molded themselves after the other’s body, as natural as anything. When she married Harry, she’d stubbornly kept up a frail façade of courtly love even as he disgusted her with talk of his mistresses. She knew the songs by heart; she knew love to be a lightness, to be a burning, to be a longing. So she’d tolerated him in her bed, dutifully assuring him of her love even as she closed her eyes and imagined him to turn into someone else.

Last night, there had been no bedding ceremony.

It was her third wedding, and it hardly seemed necessary. Sandor had merely stood up promptly and swept her up into his arms. Sansa had happily let herself be carried off to bed, reaching to pick up her goblet of wine on the way. And then, they’d been alone, and his hands were on her hips, his breath hot on her neck, and it was not _loving_ she’d thought of. No: it had been something far more urgent, something pulled up from her basest form of being to let herself forget all about songs, all about courtliness, all about pretending.

Something like what stirs in her belly when she hears him pull the furs aside and walk with heavy steps towards her across the room. Something like how her skin tingles when two arms reach around her and pulls the shutters close in front of her. Something like…

He lifts her up like she’s weightless, carrying her back to bed. She is unceremoniously dumped down on the bed, laughing all the while, as his large fingers fumble with the clasps on her robe.

”Seven hells, woman,” he mutters, ”take this off and warm me up again.”

It him that she’s laughing at, and he knows it. He doesn’t seem to mind. She quickly wriggles out of the robe and pulls him down next to her, draping warm furs over them both. Sansa lets her fingers ghost over Sandor’s chest, tracing bare skin and soft, silvery scar tissue. _Such a great warrior, and entirely at my mercy_.

”I could kill you,” she thinks aloud, and he gives a short, loud bark of a laugh.

”I’d like to see that,” he chuckles. ”To think that I’d survive countless battles and the long dark only to be slain by a little bird.”

”I wouldn’t,” she assures him, earning another deep chuckle. ”We’ve both just reached the dawn once more.”

He hums his agreement against her neck. Such a simple thing, and it sets her skin thrumming. Sansa is grateful, then. She has survived. She has not let herself be turned to stone.

She intends to be thriving, come summer.

 

 

 


End file.
